The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  Ralph, as a member of one of Harlem’s finer families in the fifties and sixties, also had an absolutely privileged childhood leading to his absolutely privileged life. His feet never crossed the threshold of a public school, and his pre-college résumé was filled with names like Collegiate, Horace Mann, and Deerfield.

  He went to Williams College and then Stanford University for his MBA. I am told that he really did not want to go into the dead body burying business and that his father had to fly out to California after the Stanford graduation and literally drag him out of a luxurious pleasure loft that Ralph had in the Mission District of San Francisco.

  Rumor has it that when Ralph returned to New York he had at least one more rebellion in him. He hooked up with a couple of entrepreneurial types and started a talent management agency. One of their first clients was an all-girl rhythm and blues band that consisted of five gorgeous young ladies who could actually play their instruments and carry a tune.

  One of the first gigs that Ralph’s agency arranged for the band, I believe it was called Bad Gurlz, was at the women’s facility at Riker’s Island, New York City’s jail. Not exactly a primo engagement, but Ralph and his colleagues figured that this would be a tough crowd and would give them a chance to find out if the Bad Gurlz were for real.

  And, they figured, since the performance was going to be in the minimum security part of Riker’s, they would be seated in an audience among women who had not been with a man in months, sometimes years. There should have been all kinds of “collateral benefits” in attending this performance. Ralph and his friends figured that these women would not be able to keep their hands off them and they would have some big fun while watching the Bad Gurlz try out their material.

  Wrong.

  Ralph and his colleagues left Riker’s Island that evening with their virtue absolutely intact. Not only did the female inmates not put their hands (or anything else) all over them, they barely noticed them.

  It was a different story with respect to the Bad Gurlz, however. They were a hit at Riker’s. In fact they were almost too much of a hit. Their performance drove the women inmates into such a frenzy that security had to escort the Bad Gurlz out of the prison auditorium. Ralph had not thought about the lesbian influences that surface in many women’s prisons.

  Bringing the Gurlz to the Riker’s women’s unit was like bringing Vanessa Del Rio and the Playboy Playmates of the Year to a Marine base at the end of basic training. Ralph and his buddies skulked out of the auditorium that night, as anonymous and as out of place as nuns in a strip club.

  I am told that it was soon thereafter Ralph decided that the talent management business was not for him. And, obviously, he found a way to reconcile his love of living the high life with burying dead bodies all day. And that explains why he had the time and inclination to sit around the bar at Dorothy’s By the Sea whenever he had the chance.

  Completing the trio at the bar was the one and only Jerry James. Jerry’s story was also pretty interesting. Orphaned before he was five, Jerry had grown up on the streets of the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn until he was arrested and convicted of attempted murder and arson at the age of seventeen. By his own admission he was pretty much a “knucklehead” up until this point, well on his way to a dead-end appointment in maximum security or the cemetery.

  However, while in prison Jerry got his high school equivalency diploma and in the process found that he had an aptitude and appreciation for academics. When he was released on parole at the age of twenty-two, a special MacArthur Foundation-sponsored program arranged for him to be enrolled at Williams College in Massachusetts. Upon graduating from Williams, he got an MBA from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School and he had worked in various positions in state and local governments since then, almost exclusively in New York.

  Aside from being a brilliant government administrator, it was commonly thought that Jerry was pretty interesting in other ways. He had worked for Governors Rockefeller, Carey, and Cuomo. He worked for Mayors Lindsay, Koch, and Dinkins. As I mentioned, he was absolutely excellent as a government administrator.

  But he also was reputed to be notorious in his use of all kinds of drugs although I have heard him say that alcohol was, and always would be, his best friend. Anybody who knew Jerry James has heard him say that he would never go out with a woman over the age of twenty-four, even though he himself had had his fiftieth birthday several years earlier.

  It would be a semi-amusing throwaway line except that Jerry was serious and seemed to run his love life by this bizarre credo. He adhered to this rule even if that meant terminating otherwise satisfying relationships with young women who had the misfortune of reaching the quarter century mark.

  As with other brilliant people that I have known, Jerry was erratic and unpredictable. His profanity was beyond any that I have ever heard from anybody. And another strange aspect of his social life was his “Five Per Cent Rule,” a rule that requires further explanation.

  This was the group that was sitting at the bar the evening of what turned out to be a most memorable day, drinking Belvedere vodka martinis and telling stories that most surely were born as lies. I remember a few of the tales that were told by that crew that night, and I still have to laugh at them. Jerry James started. While I make it a habit not to hover over my patrons, I will tell you that more than a few martinis had died noble deaths at the hands of this trio prior to the commencement of the storytelling.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I modeled in this men’s magazine? It was Ebony Man actually.”

  “No, goddammit. And I don’t feel like hearing any more of your motherfucking lies this evening. No one wants to hear how someone made a mistake by putting a picture of your tired ass in a magazine.” Trini Satterfield was never one to mince words.

  “Shut up, old motherfucker! Let me tell my story. It’s the truth. I swear to God.”

  “Now we know you are lying. The truth couldn’t mean anything coming from a lowlife like you.” It was Ralph Watson’s turn to chime in.

  Now I have to mention that, if you just happened on this conversation, you might think that this kind of banter and insult presaged a possible outbreak of fisticuffs. I happen to know for a fact that these charter members of The Pride actually admired and respected each other in their own way. The insults and banter were just a part of how they got along. And I have found that no matter how sophisticated and successful some members of The Pride might be, this kind of banter and insult could surface during any moment of relaxation.

  “If you knuckleheads would just listen for a minute. About fifteen years ago a college classmate of mine started working as an editor with this new magazine, Ebony Man. You may remember it. Johnson Publishing wanted a sophisticated magazine to appeal to black professional men. Obviously they weren’t thinking about you two motherfuckers.

  “Anyway, my buddy decided that he wanted to do a fashion issue without using professional models. Instead he wanted to use good-looking professional brothers like me.”

  “Your friend must have owed you a whole lot of money. Or did he just feel guilty about you finding out about him and your momma?” Trini was determined to stay on Jerry’s case throughout his entire story. I wondered how he could keep his train of thought. That turned out not to be a problem.

  “As I was saying … they asked me to pose in an Armani suit in one of those pseudo-hip poses—foot on a stair, elbow resting on leg, thoughtful yet promising facial expression. You’ve all seen the pose at least a million times.”

  “So what happened, Mr. Model Man? I don’t have all goddamn night to listen to your bullshit stories.” You could always count on Trini to keep firing no matter what. Jerry just pressed on, seemingly oblivious to hoots and catcalls from his own private audience.

  “What happened is that I figured that this was going to be a great way to meet women. Even though it was a new magazine, I just knew that thousands of women would look at the magazine and my pictu
re, and at least a half a dozen would call. If half of them were cute, I would have myself a good supply of bitches for the year.

  “You all know my Five Per Cent Rule. Applying it to this situation seemed to be one hell of a smart move. As soon as the magazine came out, I couldn’t wait for the phone to start ringing. It was spring time and I was expecting to have a hell of a summer harvesting a new crop of females.”

  “Since women rarely call your rusty black ass, this must have been a big goddamned deal for you. You are probably lucky you didn’t wet your pants.” Ralph Watson picked up on his role in this mini-Greek chorus.

  “Fuck you, man. I am telling you this was a damned good plan. It was a great plan actually. There is no way that I wasn’t going to be just swimming in women as soon as this magazine hit the stands. And you know what? The phone started ringing almost immediately.”

  “So, Soul Casanova, what happened with the phone calls that your tired ass got?” Trini could always be counted on for an unkind remark or two or three.

  “Believe it or not, the first call was from some faggot in Baltimore named Bruce.”

  With that, Jerry’s friends at the bar started laughing so hard they almost fell off their bar stools. I have to admit that by now I was laughing pretty loudly myself.

  “You must be bullshitting! Please tell me you are bullshitting!” Ralph spoke these words with tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.

  “I wish I was, simple motherfucker. But the truth is that I received five stupid ass calls. Four were from faggots like Bruce and the fifth call was from some jailbird motherfucker serving time in Angola Prison in Louisiana. You talk about a waste of time. More importantly, talk about busted hopes and dreams!

  “But you know what?”

  “What? You Simple Simon motherfucker. I’m already tired of hearing about your sorry ass modeling career.” Trini finished his comment and went to order a reinforcement for his rapidly disappearing martini.

  “I am still trying to find a way to get in the Ebony 100 Most Eligible Bachelors.”

  “What, you want to hear from your sissy fan club again?” Once again, it was Ralph’s turn.

  “No, dumb-ass. Listen to my theory, you might learn something. About eight million people read Ebony. About five million are women.

  “Now if one out of ten of these women actually reads the Eligible Bachelor’s article, that’s 500,000 women. If one out of ten actually looks at the pictures and notices me, that’s 50,000 women. If one out of ten of these women actually like my picture and bio, that’s 5,000 women. If one out of ten of these women really like my picture and bio, that’s 500 women.

  “Now, if one out of ten of these women like my picture enough to try and contact me, that’s fifty women. And if one out of ten of those women are fine, that’s five women. And that’s a lot of women. Certainly enough to tide me over for the year.”

  By the time Jerry finished his theory, Ralph and Trini were trying to survive the paroxysms of laughter that seemed to have possession of their very souls. Laughing and pounding their fists on the bar, tears of laughter streaming down their faces and peals of laughter echoing off the walls of Dorothy’s. By now I had fully joined in the laughter although I knew better than to try and join in the banter so as to avoid being verbally sliced and diced to ribbons. Being from Norway there are some American skills that I just have not developed as yet. But I am trying.

  Several people at the bar who found themselves to be unwitting eavesdroppers started to laugh as well. It didn’t seem to bother Jerry James at all. He had kept right on with his out-to-lunch theory as if he were giving a soliloquy at Yale Drama School.

  Trini was the first to compose himself enough to provide a response. He put his glass down and cleared his throat.

  “I have always known that you are a dumb-ass motherfucker. But that has got to get the Olympic gold medal for stupid. I can’t believe that you wasted Ralph’s time and mine with that stupid shit. Remind me to tell you to shut the fuck up the next time you start speaking.”

  With that they ordered another round of martinis and continued their hardball bantering. It was time for me to check on some of the other prized patrons of Dorothy’s By the Sea. But I knew that I would have to return to hear another story or seven before the evening ended.

  CHAPTER 46

  Paul

  My mind is a camera

  About a week after the luncheon meeting at the Water Club, Diedre and I spoke on the phone. By then I had started working on the merger project and I was starting to think that this was something that could really come to pass. It was fantastic, it was a ninety-nine yard pass to win the Super Bowl, but I could see how it could happen.

  I was reviewing a memorandum to the file that I had written when Diedre called. My secretary knew to put her calls through. I recall scanning the memo as Diedre and I spoke: it basically summarized everything that had transpired at the Water Club. I have always found that contemporaneous documentation helps me keep track of what the hell I have been doing.

  “Having a good day, Paul?”

  “It’s always a constant struggle to stay behind, you know that.” It was an old line that I had used for years, but I always felt comfortable using it with Diedre.

  “Paul, I hesitated to mention it on the ride back from the Water Club, but you really should have seen your face when you snatched Ray Beard.”

  “That son of a bitch had a lot more than that coming to him, that’s for sure.”

  “Paul, I can’t believe how angry you still are. Is this male menopause we are seeing or midlife crisis come early?” I could see her smiling broadly in my mind’s eye as we spoke.

  To tell the truth, I started to deny the entire reality to which she referred. But something came over me and I realized that I should just deal with what she was saying … it was true. And there was no need to try and hide my feelings from Diedre. She could always read me like a book.

  “All I can say, Diedre, is that there is something about Ray Beard, his attitude, his way of being, who he is. Let’s just say that his supercilious, pompous, stuck-up, pretentious, conceited attitude got in the way for just a moment or two.”

  “I’ll say.” Diedre’s enjoyment of my discomfiture virtually and mirthfully bubbled through the phone.

  “Seriously, it’s hard to put into words, but you know as well as anyone that when we got out of school and hit Wall Street, there was nothing, absolutely nothing that was handed to us. I remember too many idiots asking me if I played basketball while I was standing there in a three-piece suit with a briefcase, just because I am black and over six feet tall.

  “I remember being told that there was no way that I could be smart enough to be partner at the white shoe law firms while they hired my less bright white brothers and sisters.

  “And how many times have you been mistaken for a secretary or an assistant or an intern or a hooker, anything , and I mean anything, other than a banker who had some knowledge and some authority?”

  “You know that I don’t believe in crying the blues. I’ve done pretty well, as have you and Gordon and Jerome and a lot of people that we know. But we worked, really worked to get where we are. For a long, long time. Not as long as my parents and your parents, but I don’t mind saying, I have paid my dues. As have you.”

  “And then you get some half-ass punk like Ray Beard sashaying down the boulevard. A Grade A knucklehead making serious six figures just by showing up on Wall Street. And then, a certified star like Jerome Hardaway takes him under his wing and makes him his protégé. And this idiot has the nerve to cop an attitude with me!”

  “I am sure that the Paul Taylor that I know couldn’t possibly be whining, but I sure feel like getting you some cheese to go with that whine.”

  “Whining? Diedre, what on earth are you talking about?” It was impossible for me to think of myself as whining. But I made myself listen.

  “I am afraid so, my dear. You sound like a very old and windy fart,
complaining that the young folks have it easy these days. The next thing you know you will be telling me about how you walked to school through five miles of snow every day.”

  “You and I both know that the truth is that there will always be someone who comes after us who will have it better than we did, just like we have it much, much better than our parents, and a lot of others who came before us.”

  There was no way that I could disagree with what Diedre was saying. She was speaking the truth and all I could do was listen. But this was a case where the truth didn’t hurt. And sometimes it helps to look reality in the eye. This turned out to be one of those times.

  CHAPTER 47

  Diedre

  E. Frederic Morrow

  “Tell me, Paul, have you ever heard of E. Frederic Morrow?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Who is he?”

  “Was, Paul. E. Frederic Morrow was the first black person appointed as an assistant to the President of the United States. He worked for President Eisenhower in the fifties when the White House had a relatively small staff, and working in the White House really meant something. And it was a time when D.C. was still a segregated southern city. For a black man to be on the staff of the President of the United States was truly extraordinary at that time.

  “Mr. Morrow worked at the White House for most of the two Eisenhower terms. He opened doors that black people didn’t even know existed. He mediated, interposed, networked, and did a hundred things that never made the headlines or the history books.

  “Do you want to know how I know about Mr. Morrow?”

  By now I had Paul’s full attention. He was through whining and was wondering where this story was going.

  “Actually, Diedre, I do want to know. You are telling me something I just never knew. How did you meet this man?”